See
by CheshireGrinn
Summary: Sansa cannot look away, and Arya is not allowed to watch. They both regret. (Two-shot; FUTURE!Starks and FUTURE!Arya/Gendry)
1. Chapter 1

**AN-Not much to say about this. I was intrigued by the fact that Sansa sees what Arya cannot, and how that might affect them later.**

**Enjoy~  
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**.:See:.  
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Her auburn curls shine in the bright sun, done in the style of the Southern ladies, and her dress is the same color as her sweet eyes and the endless, endless sky. Not a cloud dots it today, and she thinks that is a good omen. The old gods and the new are watching over them today.

He is drug out, limping, and she smiles at him, thinking of how nice it will be to travel with him back to Winterfell, but her smile falters, because he will have to go further north, have to live out the rest of his days on The Wall as a member of the Night's Watch.

She can't help the timid smile as her father confesses his crimes, because even if she knows they are false, he will be okay, Winterfell will be okay, everything will be okay.

"Ser Illyn, bring me his _head_."

Her heart stops, her breathing hitches, and then she screams, she screams and shouts and protests and tries to get to him but someone is holding her back. She can feel blackness encroaching on the edges of her vision, can feel the darkness creeping in, and she knows she should just look up to that blue, blue sky, but she can't tear her eyes away.

As the massive blade lifts, she finds herself thinking of everything. Of Robb and Bran and little Rickon and her mother, with their matching auburn curls and blue, blue eyes of the Tully's, of Arya and her father—_oh her father_—with the dark hair and grey cloud eyes of the Stark's, and even of Jon Snow, who looks more like the Starks than the heirs of the name. She thinks of the cold walls of Winterfell, or the crypts down below, of Rickon and Brandon and Lyanna, lost before their time. She thinks of Grey Wind and Nymeria and Shaggy Dog and Ghost and the lone pup that Bran never got the chance to name before she left. She thinks of Lady—_oh sweet, sweet, innocent Lady_—and she wonders how everything can go wrong so very fast.

Sansa rolls those blue, blue eyes up to the blue, blue sky, hoping and praying that she will miss this, but when they rolls back down, the sword severs his head cleanly, and Eddard Stark's head goes rolling.

She falls, and the last thing she glimpses is that blue, blue sky.

She struggles against the tide of people, tries to shove through, her palm on Needle's hilt, ready to chop them down.

"Ser Illyn, bring me his _head_!"

Her heart stops, sputters, goes into overdrive, threatens to burst from her chest, and she fights like a wild thing, like a wolf, until someone latches onto her arm and spins her around.

She fights him, too, because her father is up there, some little king screaming for his head, and she can't let it happen. She can't let it happen.

The man is yelling at her, but it's all static in her head, all blurs together, all she catches is a word every time and again, and he holds her tight to him, and as the crowd gets louder around her, she looks up.

The sky is so blue, so so blue, cloudless, and she thinks of her mother's eyes and reddish-brown curls, and then Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon, all colored the same, and then of Jon, her favorite brother, his dark curls and gray sky eyes, of Jon, the gifter of Needle, the one that finishes her sentences, and of their father, so strong and noble and kind. She thinks of Ghost and Grey Wind, of Shaggy Dog and the pup Bran wasn't awake to name, and of Nymeria—_oh, I miss you Nymeria_-and—of Lady—_I'm so sorry_. She wonders how everything manages to go so wrong so fast.

Her eyes roll up, catch that blue, blue sky, and the flock of birds that fly by in their formation.

The crowd cheers, and her heart sputters again, numbs, and then she's being drug along again.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN-So, here's the second and final installment. This was supposed to be just the girls reflecting on Lord Eddard's beheading, but it got a little distracted. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I really like this one. :)**

**Once again, no specific timeline. I'm only half through the second book, so I don't know much. Just what's been spoiled in fanfics. xD  
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**.:See:.  
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The years had been both kind and unkind to the Stark sisters.

Sansa had grown ever more beautiful, her auburn curls falling well past her waist, her blue, blue eyes even more wide, her body had taken the curvaceous shape of a lady, and her skin ever so flawless, white, like snow. Or, perhaps a better likeness was ice. For all poor Sansa had seen, she became a lady of ice. Even Winterfell could not boast such strong walls. Her face was a careful mask, not betraying even the slightest hint of emotion, positive or otherwise, unless the woman herself wished it. Sansa had returned to the north a changed woman, wishing only for peace, and no longer enthralled with the flowered tales of knights and their ladies.

As beautiful and cold as Sansa had grown, Arya had grown beautiful and wilder than ever before.

Even now, as she approached the godswood, her hair was a mass of wild curls, barely touching her sinewy shoulders. Hair that had once been their father's brown were now much, much darker, and her eyes were still the color of smoke, however not so wide as they had been. The She-Wolf of Winterfell had seen much and lost even more, and still mourned the absence of her thin sword. Her body was thin, graced only here and there with the faintest hints of womanly curves. She could not be caged, and could not be tamed.

Even as she walks through the clearing beneath the heart tree, there is something primal to her gait, so much the opposite of the propriety of how Sansa sits. Blue eyes meet gray, and they say nothing, for there is nothing to say.

Arya walks briskly, seating herself on the ground across from Sansa. She wear a tunic too large for her, breeches held up with an old belt of Bran's, and her bare toe just brushes the beautiful sky blue velvet of Sansa's gown, a fur cloak as colorless as snow about her shoulders.

Sansa stands far taller than Arya ever hoped to, but here they are equal.

They have both hurt, both lost, and both mourned.

"You're back."

Sansa speaks first, and Arya nods. She's been off again, traipsing about the forests. She searches for Nymeria still.

"You missed the feast."

Arya rolls her eyes. She's knows not which lord they've feasted, now does she care. She cares about very little these days. Very little beyond finding Nymeria, protecting Winterfell, and him.

Sansa is quiet for a moment. Ever since their returns to Winterfell, Sansa hides behind small talk and idle chatter. She will not offer what has happened to her, nor will she respond when questioned. Arya is much the same.

The wind blows softly around them, sends ripples across the surface of the small pond, rattles the crimson leaves. They say nothing, for they don't know what to say.

Once again, Sansa speaks.

"You love him."

Arya's head snaps up, those smoke gray eyes so very wide, her mouth open just slightly, and a smile tugs at Sansa's lips. At once, Arya's mind fires forth a thousand protests and denials, and before she can possibly manage to get her tongue to work for her, Sansa holds up a long, slender hand, smiling outright now, "Do not argue. It wasn't a _question_, dear sister, but a _statement_."

Arya frowns, dark brows knitting and she watches her sister. Sansa allows her mask of ice to melt for a while, and points a lithe finger at her younger sister, "And he loves you as well."

Arya's brow shoot to her hairline, and then, as if remembering herself, they lower into a scowl and she scoffs, "You're _craven_, sister dear."

Sansa allows her a giggle, looking playfully at the other young woman, "You may be blind to the way his eyes follow you, but I am not. It's as if he's not had a drink of water for _years_, and you are the clearest river he's ever had the privilege of seeing. As if you are the sun, and the moon, and the stars. As if you are _everything_."

When Arya's face turns a pretty red, Sansa laughs, delighted and sounding of bells. Whether Arya has returned their affection, Sansa knows not, but she knows Arya is at the very least aware of it.

As Sansa laughs, Arya can feel the memory of Gendry's hot hands ghosting over her scarred flesh. She shudders.

Sansa looks at her sister, and Arya's heart warms at the mirth and happiness she sees in the blue depths, "So, tell me, sister. Tell me of this Gendry."

Words die of Arya's tongue, choke her throat, make her forget everything she's ever learned. How do you describe someone you can't possibly live without, someone that you would risk everything for? How do you describe those little looks, the small touches, the way every thought centers around them? How do you tell someone their hair slides perfectly through your fingers, that your heart flutters when their lashes flutter against your cheek, that his fingers just fit perfectly within yours?

Instead, Arya swallows thickly and says, "He was there."

Sansa gets her meaning, nods, and is content. Gendry was there when no one else could be, and bastard or not, she would forever be in his debt for that.

They lapse into silence once again, and the wind blows a bit more.

This time, Arya is the first to speak.

"In King's Landing, you saw."

Sansa is quiet for a moment; she saw many things in King's Landing. But she knows, without a doubt, what her sister means, for not long after that event, Arya was smuggled out of its walls.

"I did," Sansa agrees, and then adds, "though I wish I hadn't."

Their eyes meet again, and Arya replies, "I wish I had. All I saw were birds."

They hold their gazes, and ask no more questions. They both know why they wish what they wish, and Arya stands not long after, stretching and dusting herself off, "I have others I need to visit."

"Gendry," Sansa says with the utmost certainty.

"Other people," Arya repeats, and turns on heel, walking away with that same primal manner.

Sansa watches Arya go with a soft smile, remembering a huge man with a scarred face and a kind soul.

A bird chirps, and she can almost imagine the twitter sounding like, '_little bird_'…

She looks up at the sky so blue, and closes her eyes, murmuring, "Oh, Father, what would you think of us now?"


End file.
